


Venom

by tinyfiestyrosiekitten



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Blind Soldier: 76 | Jack Morrison, Dark, Gen, HE can see light, M/M, Monster Reaper | Gabriel Reyes, Not entirely though, Post-Fall of Overwatch, and shapes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-05-04
Packaged: 2019-05-02 01:14:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14533476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinyfiestyrosiekitten/pseuds/tinyfiestyrosiekitten
Summary: Soldiers are made of Spare parts, Serums like to fuck with the lives of Said Soldiers, and Monsters have Feelings too.





	Venom

It’s in the way he refuses to kiss him. 

Jack is left with one hand curled in the air, where it had once held cool grey-dark skin. The other hanging where it had rested on his waist. His pale eyes, useless save for if something was right in front of his nose, tracked in sharp darting motions before he exhaled explosively behind his mask. His hands dropped to clench into fists before he turned on his heel and marched away.

He was going to shoot something on the range and forget about this disaster.

He snapped his tactical visor on from his belt to his face. Rolling his neck and shoulders as the migraine spiked to life as usual. The direct connection to the neurons that stimulated sight using the infrared tech in the visor was amazing, but not perfect. Mercy had explained it to him once in medical jargon but he’d tuned her out. All he cared about was that it worked.

So he worked out his aggression on moving robotic dummies instead of going to find a hapless gang somewhere near their current working base in Russia. Zarya had requested they head up here, there were radical Omnic cells that had stirred while she was working elsewhere.

It was the least they could do to help her out, put a presence in and do some work. 

Familiar work for him, for them both really.

Reaper had said something like it.

“ Back to old tricks then cabrón?” The old mocking lilt in his tone, even with the new growl that lingered in every sentence and word. Jack had been highly tempted to hit him. He was STILL highly tempted to hit him. They’d gotten closer, working through anger and bitterness, and betrayal. Even more so now that they were in such familiar trenches. 

Omnics sighted down on them and Jack and Gabriel, Soldier and Reaper, going it back to back like they were twenty years younger and wild. He finally lowered his gun, regarding the ruined training bots and growls deeply. Then Gabriel had to go and ruin it by fucking running again.

Jack trudged away from the training room towards his own. Passing by members of the Watch, getting some greetings both cheerful and wary; understandable given his methods can be…less than pretty these days. He wasn’t the Golden Poster Child –emphasis on those capital letters- anymore. He snorted as he keys in his code and steps into his room.

Sliding off his tactical visor and setting it aside he padded towards his bathroom which had a special newly installed bulk seal at his request, discretely, to Mercy and Winston. He finally slid his mask off. Exhaling and inhaling painfully in the cold recycled air of his bathroom, smacking open a hidden panel and flicking a switch. 

His breaths evening as the room slowly fills with Carbon Monoxide, Nitrogen Dioxide and various other poisonous gases. He disengages the canisters against his neck, slowly stripping, enjoying his ability to breathe without the constrictive curve of his mask and re-breather. 

As he turns on the water and steps into the shower he considers how he can convince Gabriel he’s not worried about fucking kissing the man turned self proclaimed monster. 

After all SEP made them both monsters well before the fall of Overwatch.

Adaptability. 

That had been their overreaching goal. A soldier that could be flung at any environment, and with enough shock and stress; adapt and over come and remember the abuses done to their body. Their body absorbing, changing…

He snorts, breath streaming grey and white from his nose in the swirling steamed air. His fingers sliding through his pale hair. They presume the stress turned him white, not the chemicals he’d inhaled for the hours he’d laid under burning rubble and metal and god knows what other burning materials. By the time he’d heaved himself free, there was no Gabriel… No Overwatch, and he watched his own funeral on a TV while his brain tried to piece back together who he was.

Took him nearly a year after the fall of Overwatch to get his brain unscrambled.

And even then he struggled with daily function, let alone vigilantism. He figured it out when a group of particularly nasty smugglers in South Asia had locked him in a warehouse subbasement and pumped the room full of a toxin. It was the easiest breathing he’d had in six months. 

Of course walking out of it had them cowering about demons.

Jack had dealt with that problem before moving onto his new one. What could he breathe, and what was still technically toxic? After some admittedly stupid self trial and error he’d figured it out. Jury rigging an empty biotic canister under his jacket he’d modified the mask to work as a re-breather. The byproduct had to be disposed of carefully but it worked; if crudely. 

Meeting up with the New Watch had led to some helpful modifications. Mercy had berated him for hours about the potential bomb strapped to his back before her and Winston –sworn again to secrecy- had rigged up a more stream lined version of it for him.

He scrubbed his palms over his face before he snaps off the water and turns off the chemical fans. Letting the air settle as the scrubbers started to do their work, he shaves, dries and snaps his mask on. Observing himself before a green light goes off over his door. He unlocks and unseals the bulkhead and steps back out into his living area. Toweling at his pale hair as he dropped into a chair and pulls up a holographic image from his tablet. Spinning it as the news starts.

No matter; contemplative thoughts aside. 

He and Gabe? 

They had all the time in the world now. After all, what was the world and time to two men who’d survived hell on three separate counts? Jack settled into a chair, legs drawn up in an old hoodie as he wrapped his arms around his knees. 

They had time. 

He had time to convince Gabe he wasn’t afraid of his poison. 

It was the only thing keeping his lungs functioning at perfect efficiency now.

He gives a low noise of amusement and settles in for another frozen Russian night.


End file.
